“‘And take care,’ says she, ‘that the kettle’s boiling, for the last cup you made for me was poison, and smoked at that.’”
The words were not yet the words of Miss Blow, but the meaning might very well have been hers.
“She’s mighty particular about her tea,” said Jimmy. “She has the life fair plagued out of Bridgy; not but what Bridgy deserves it. And what would you be wishing for yourself, Mr. Goddard?”
Mr. Goddard wished that he had accepted Lord Manton’s invitation. Since it appeared that Miss Blow was safely in her room, perhaps actually in bed, he might just as well have dined in comfort at Clonmore Castle. But he did not make this reply to Jimmy O’Loughlin. He said that what he was wishing for himself was a chop and a bottle of porter. He might have said whisky instead of porter, but he knew that there was no hope of getting anything else in the way of food except the chop. Jimmy O’Loughlin accepted the order and ushered his guest into the commercial room, which happened to be empty.
In due time Bridgy entered with the chop. It was served on a plate with a round tin cover over it; a cover which meant well, but failed to keep the chop warm. Mr. Goddard contemplated the frozen grease which clung round the edges of the plate, and then, lest it too should freeze, plunged his knife and fork into the chop. Bridgy uncorked his bottle of porter, and set it on the table beside a dish of potatoes. Yellow froth oozed rapidly from the mouth of the bottle and ran down on to the tablecloth. It added one more brown stain to those which the last four commercial travellers, eating in haste, had made with Worcester sauce, mustard, or gravy. Mr. Goddard, who had a fastidious dislike of dirty table linen, seized the bottle, and then discovered that he had no tumbler. He set the bottle in the fender, and rang the bell furiously. Bridgy half opened the door, and put her head into the room. The rest of her body remained outside. This was her ordinary way of presenting herself to people who rang bells. She looked as if she expected to have plates thrown at her, and meant to be ready for a swift retreat.
“A tumbler,” said Mr. Goddard.
Bridgy smiled pleasantly. “It’s hardly ever,” she said, “I lay the table but I do be forgetting something. It might be the salt, or—have you the salt? Glory be to God! you have, and the spoon along with it.”
There was a pool of considerable size in the fender round the porter bottle, and the froth was still oozing out persistently.
“A tumbler,” said Mr. Goddard again.
His tone startled Bridgy. She disappeared, closing the door behind her. In a few minutes she was back again without the tumbler.